


Of The Pure Blood

by Winchester_Werewolf



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Death Eaters, F/M, Forced Marriage, Incest, Multi, Original Character-centric, Pre-Order of the Phoenix, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Society, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Wizarding Traditions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winchester_Werewolf/pseuds/Winchester_Werewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An illegitimate child, Callidora Black was never treasured for anything other than her pure blood. Kept locked away within Malfoy Manor, she is hidden from greater Magical society, with only her Wireless and novels for company. </p><p>When the Dark Lord rises from the dead within a graveyard, Lucius Malfoy must once again reverse damage caused by pro-muggle sentiments on the political and societal landscape of the Wizarding world, even if it means using children to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**“** I lie in the dark wondering if this quiet in me now is a beginning or an end. **”**

— Jack Gilbert, _Waking At Night_

 

 

“You know I don’t really want this,” he whispered quietly beside her.

 

Callidora turned, slowly, to look at her cousin’s grey eyes staring out of the open picture window. He had a strange, pinched expression on his face Callidora hadn’t seen before. Draco’s lips were pursed into one thin line, his usually elegant eyebrows scrunched low enough to cast his eyes into shadow. It gave Callidora a funny feeling in her chest, something tight and hot like her heart was being boiled from the inside, so she looked out into the garden.  

 

Malfoy Manor’s green lawn rolled for miles— Callidora had once tried to walk its length, but had only gotten a mile out before the containment charm stopped her from going any further. She was watching the long grass sway in the night’s breeze when something caught in the corner of her eye.

 

An albino peacock was roosting quietly in an  ornamental oak tree— one of the many trees bordering the edges of her aunt’s prized _Jardin à l'anglaise_ — its long tail feathers hanging down from the branches, luminous and shimmering in the moonlight. Callidora liked the peacocks, particularly when they strutted up to her window for bits of bread and sat atop Aunt Cissy’s hedges. But she didn’t like them when they were locked away in the stables for the winter, leaving her to her own emptiness.

 

Next to her, Callidora could taste the emptiness rolling of Draco in waves. His own emptiness was different to hers; put-upon and confused. _Angry_.

 

Callidora hummed softly. This wasn’t a time for selfishness, she decided quietly.  “I don’t either, Draco. But it’s not like we have a choice— _toujours pur_ . We can’t really do anything about it; it’s already _been_ decided.”

 

His face had grown longer since Callidora had seen him last summer, it made him look like a Witch Weekly pin-up— at least, in her opinion. Draco sighed, and returned Callidora’s gaze. “They’ve gone barmy.”

 

“They’re following tradition,” she whispered, more to herself than Draco, and she tugged anxiously at the skirt of her dressing gown. It seemed like such feeble excuse for her aunt and uncle’s brash decision. She didn’t really understand it — not keenly, anyway.

 

A rash and angry decision met over the great dining room table, with shouts between Draco and Uncle Lucius and Aunt Narcissa until Lucius caterwauled over all of them that if Draco wasn’t willing to marry any of the suitable Sacred Twenty-Eight heiresses then he was to wed _Callidora_ . The yelling had been loud enough for Callidora to eavesdrop in quiet horror from the gallery. At the time it had seemed so ludicrous; and Callidora immediately assumed Uncle Lucius must have been having one of his rages. Only he hadn’t been, and when Draco had snapped back that, “ _fine, I’ll marry Callidora! She’s the best of the lot anyway!_ ” Callidora had felt like Dippy must’ve mixed a very strange potion into her tea that morning to be hearing such things.

 

But then Aunt Cissy wouldn’t look at Callidora over the breakfast table anymore, and hadn’t invited her for tea in the morning room either. Especially with Crabbe and Goyle and that frightening Mulciber man prowling around the galleries and drawing rooms, Callidora had spent most days with a heavy cloud of bewilderment hanging over her. Uncle Lucius only made it worse by separating Callidora’s favourite bits of the _Daily Prophet_ from the front pages before giving it to her, like news of the outside world would give Callidora Ideas to run away.

 

“Nutters,” Draco muttered under his breath. Callidora privately agreed.

 

Her hands twitched and she reached out, laying her palm softly on the shoulder of Draco’s robes. To her small surprise, his own hand reached up and covered hers, curling it into his palm. The weird feeling in her chest flared, no less sticky and uncomfortable, and she looked at the glassy nails of his fingers. Their neatness almost made Callidora smile.

 

“At least it’s _me,_ Draco,” she compromised, looking into Draco’s eyes with earnest, trying to offer some modicum of comfort.  “At least it’s not that _Bulstrode_ girl or… or— the Abbott girl with a weasel face.”

 

A small smile touched Draco’s lips and he curled his fingers even closer around her hand. He must have known Callidora didn’t really know whom she was talking about— her opinions gathered from Draco’s descriptions and her aunt’s scathing gossip— but he didn’t seem to care. At least, Callidora hoped so.

 

“I know,” Draco sighed. “At least it’s with you.”

 

“Me too.” Callidora smiled, her lips spreading as far as they could, which wasn’t very far at all. It pinched at the corners of her cheeks and ached. When was the last time she had smiled? She couldn’t remember.  “I know I’m younger’n you and everything, but we can be friends, right?”

 

“Of course we can,” Draco agreed dully, his eyes wandering out to the grounds again. Callidora looked too, and saw that the peacock had wandered somewhere out of sight.

 

They didn't speak for a few moments, Draco searching the garden for the peacock, and Callidora watching a moth hover in from the open box window where they sat, fluttering over a small beeswax candle sitting atop her armoire.

 

Even though Uncle Lucius had once forbid it, Callidora and Draco did exchange letters during the colder months whilst Draco was away at school. Callidora’s letters were sparse, mostly small notes on her days inside the manor with little watercolours of the gardens and Aunt Cissy pruning her roses to make the scroll a little thicker. It was Draco’s letters she longed for in the long, lonely days during her cousin’s school months. WWN plays didn’t have quite the political complexity as Draco’s tales of Hogwarts did, and Callidora hung on every word. She liked hearing about his lessons, held in classrooms with other people instead of the quiet isolation of correspondence course booklets Callidora did alone in her room, and what Draco had to say about his friends and their escapades. She enjoyed every word of them, drank them up like novels... even if they did get a bit tedious, sometimes, when they were just about What Harry Potter Did Today and That Wretched Mudblood.

 

Although other times Draco wrote about people he liked. It made Callidora feel strange in ways she couldn’t quite explain whenever Draco wrote about Pansy Parkinson, or any of the other girls Callidora recognised as pureblood debutantes. Legitimate and pure-blooded, and no doubt as beautiful as the girls in _Witch Weekly’s_ editorials; they were _worthy_.

 

They were girls Aunt Cissy would prefer Draco to marry. Girls Draco would be happier with, girls he could have on his arm outside of Malfoy Manor to take to the society balls Callidora poured over in the _Daily Prophet’s_ society pages. She could see them, Draco in his finest robes and a girl with pretty hair, hand in hand, walking through the Wizarding Quarter of London during the day and disappearing into gilded ballrooms at night. _You know I don’t really want this,_ Draco’s voice whispered in a quiet part of Callidora’s head, and her burning chest suddenly felt ready to burst open from the pressure of it.

 

It was a while before Callidora found the courage to speak again. “It’s alright, y’know, when you go back you can date the Greengrass girl, I won’t mind—”

 

Draco looked up, suddenly furious. “Have you gone loopy, too? You _know_ what people will say—”

 

Callidora whipped her around to stare at him, affronted and confused. She was only trying to _help_ . He didn’t want Callidora as a bride, and she was only being prudent.

 

“Draco— you’re a _boy_ . I know you like her, y’know, and you’re bigger than me so I know things are different for — y’know, _boys_.” Callidora explained swiftly,  shifting uncomfortably. The weird feeling in her chest burned a little brighter, a little warmer.

 

Two red splotches bloomed on Draco’s white cheeks and he shook her hand off his shoulder. “No.”

 

“Just pretend I’m not here. Pretend I’m not your— your fiance, and drink firewhiskey with your friends and snog lots of girls.” Callidora’s words tasted like deceit in her mouth. She didn’t want to continue not existing, but Draco’s happiness seemed more important. Another two years of hiding away from the wider world Callidora swore she could handle, even if it meant her cousin — _fiancé_ — was courting other prettier, much older,  girls.

 

Only, her words seemed to float off into the night air, carried on the breeze with the scent of roses and hydrangeas flowing in from the ornamental garden. Callidora had thought Draco hadn’t listened to her at all until he said obstinately, “no.”

 

“Draco—”

 

“You’re my betrothed and—  I don’t want to do that, Dora, it’s not… not fair to you.” Draco said, taking Callidora’s hand once again and pulling it into his lap. He played with the silver ring on her right hand, twisting it around the knuckle. An heirloom from their demented grandmother. It hurt her finger, rubbed it raw, but Callidora didn’t mind. “I— you’re in _here_ , and when we get… married, I know it sounds stupid — but I want to get you out—”

 

“Even with Death Eaters running ‘round the place?” Callidora joked faintly to cut him off, softer than a whisper for fear someone would hear. Nobody would, of course, being that her rooms were too far away from the Malfoys’ main chambers. But Callidora still found herself scared of these things. She had always been scared of many things.

  
  
And she found herself particularly scared of that funny feeling in her chest, that burned  so brightly enough inside her she was afraid it would shine through her chest like a lantern at Draco’s… _promise_. A promise Callidora knew he couldn’t keep, no matter how well-intentioned.

 

The Death Eater jibe seemed to have distracted Draco enough to say, “they’re not _that_ bad.”

 

Callidora suddenly snorted, her melancholy falling into derision. Only Draco could find the nasty people in the parlour ‘not that bad’. _Merlin_ . “They’re killing people who haven’t _done_ anything.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Muggles aren’t pe—“

 

“Yes they are, Draco!”

 

Callidora withdrew her hand sharply from Draco’s lap. Silence filled the air again, only the faint rustle of leaves breaking it with each push of a summer breeze. Callidora closed her eyes, letting the wind tickle her cheeks.

 

It made her sad Draco couldn’t see the humanity in the strange little people who walked the path far out by the border of Savernake Forest. She could hear them talk amongst themselves when she pressed herself against the hedge of the kitchen garden, and when she was feeling brave, Callidora would climb up the tallest elm tree to watch them.

 

Even though they wore funny clothes and rode strange wheeled contraptions like horses and talked about things Callidora didn’t understand, she could only think of them as other people. Some even _sounded_ just like the wizards and witches on the Wizarding Wireless Network’s radio plays Callidora listened to every night. Muggles had children and wives and husbands and lives and little dogs they called Terrance. They were just different. Different was scary but that didn’t mean different was _wrong_.

 

Callidora was scared of muggles, intrigued by them, too; but she certainly didn’t hate them. She just wished Draco could see that away from the influence of her uncle, away from the black cloaks eating off their dining room table and drinking in their parlour. Away from the muted whispers in the galleries that called for murder and rape and _extermination_ of people without magic in their blood.

 

“Fancy hearing that from Bellatrix Lestrange’s _daughter_ ,” Draco commented drolly after a while.

 

“Oh, shut up!” Callidora retorted, giving her fiancé a light slap on the arm. And when Callidora turned to give Draco a look, she saw a smile light up his narrow face and the flame that burned in her chest burst into butterflies.

 

_Toujours pur._

  
_At least it’s with you_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She no longer wanted any of this, any engagement, any marriage with Draco, if only so long as her uncle and aunt would just look at her again without any sort of… any sort of… resentful finality."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up, there is mention of a scalping and murder, so take when reading  
> the soundtrack for this chapter is 'The Call Within' by Dario Marianelli  
> the whole playlist for this fic is [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLVBgn1qsWcWZhaFHj62ql5IqDVyu6n3g4l) and I'm adding to it constantly

**"** I cannot rid myself of the feeling that I’m not in the right place. **"**

-Franz Kafka, _Advocates_

 

 

A small hand was touching her wrist, shaking it lightly.

“Mistress,” a squeaky voice said softly and the shaking grew a little stronger. “Mistress, it’s time to wake up.”

Callidora cracked open one gummy eye and moaned softly. It felt like she had only just fallen asleep not moments before. Draco hadn’t left her rooms until sometime before dawn, and she herself had only retired when the sky had turned a beautiful soft grey, barely kissed by the rising sun. She wanted to be grouchy, and crabby, but the little face with over-large olive eyes staring back at her ebbed that desire away. _Dippy_.

For as long as Callidora could remember, Dippy had woken her every morning.

“Good morning, mistress,” Dippy said kindly, patting Callidora’s wrist. “Tea is at your tables.”

Callidora mumbled a thanks as she sat up and Dippy tottered off to open the draperies. Her dressing gown was laid at the end of her bed, as it was every morning, and Callidora slipped into gratefully before sliding out of bed.

Just as Dippy had promised, her usual tea tray was sat, warm and waiting, atop the small table in the corner of her room. The chair faced the picture window overlooking the gardens, still green and well-watered despite the summer drought. Aunt Cissy said saving water was for muggles; Malfoys needn’t worry themselves about such concerns when they could conjure up cyclones if they so pleased. Callidora thought it a little unfair considering how sad and sunburnt the Savernake forest looked over the kitchen hedge, while everything within their walls was still spring-green and in eternal bloom.  

When Callidora sat down, the little porcelain teapot floated off the tray and tipped its spout into her teacup. Little curlicues of steam drifted out of the delicate porcelain cup when the milk jug started to lift itself off the silver tray but Callidora quickly snatched it back down. The enchantment could never get her tea quite right.

This was how she liked her mornings best: wrapped up in her fluffiest dressing gown, with a cup of tea in one hand and the entertainment section of the _Daily Prophet_ in the other. It was a good way to welcome the morning, if Callidora said so herself.

She was halfway through her cup of orange pekoe when Dippy, who normally would have scuttled off to the kitchens by then to do whatever it was house elves did out of sight, appeared at the doorway of Callidora’s dressing room.

“Mistress Malfoy would like yous in the blue morning room,” Dippy said, her little ears flapping as she talked.

Callidora paused, cup halfway to her lips. Aunt Cissy wanted her for breakfast? Callidora couldn’t remember the last time she had been invited to breakfast with Aunt Cissy. A morning before the — the discussion about Draco and, well, _her_.

“Did she say anything else?” Callidora asked, placing her cup back onto its saucer. Her chest tingled like she’d swallowed a handful of _Fizzing Whizbees_ all at once and a sudden urge to jump up and run all the way to the blue room in her nightgown filled her veins.

But no.

It would not be very wise of her. Aunt Cissy wouldn’t appreciate Callidora being silly… wouldn’t approve of her acting like a baby.

Aunt Cissy wanted a sensible girl for Draco, a smart girl. A well-mannered girl who knew her pleases and thank yous and other pleasantries Callidora had been taught but did not practise as often as she ought to do. It was rather difficult to practise one’s pleasantries when there was no-one there to witness them.  

Callidora had to be a good girl now, for Aunt Cissy, to show her that Callidora was a good match for her son; someone who wouldn’t bring shame on him for rudeness or being stupid or… what did the silly witches in her favourite radio plays do that made them so wretched? She couldn’t think of any right at that moment, but Callidora was sure she behaved just like they did.

Callidora was still pondering this when Dippy ushered her into the dressing room. The large gilded wardrobe that normally would have its doors open, ready for her to choose her outfit for the day was mysteriously closed, and an unfamiliar lavender robe was laid across her vanity’s pouffe. It floated gently upwards once they entered as if worn by an invisible model, twirling gracefully for the morning sun to glimmer off of dozens of silver thread chrysanthemums bursting like fireworks around the waist and hem.

It was the most beautiful dress Callidora had ever seen in her life… and much too fine a thing for one to wear about the house.

“Mistress Malfoy ordered it for yous,” Dippy explained squeakily with a small toothy smile on her face. Her belly gave a funny sort of shiver; Aunt Cissy very rarely gave her gifts.

Strangely, after Callidora had dressed and Dippy laced the back of the dress, the house elf picked up her hairbrush and started to comb through her hair. Scarcely anyone had touched Callidora’s hair since she was little. By and large, Callidora had been left in charge of her own appearance, and aside from the occasional ribbon, her hair was usually left to fly free in its usual dark tumble, now so long it hung past her hips.

Dippy had other plans. With quick and nimble fingers, she began to braid and pin Callidora’s hair in all sorts of ways, snapping her fingers every so often to summon silver combs to hold everything in place. Dippy became rather distressed when several combs lost their grip and all her hair tumbled out again.

“Mistress has got too much hair to stay up,” Dippy said miserably. Callidora wanted to apologise: she had never thought of her hair as anything more than a nuisance to _herself_ before, especially when she sat on it.  In the end, the wealth of hair at the back was left to hang after some careful curling by Dippy’s fingers.

It was very odd seeing herself all dressed up. The dress brought out the silvery blue of her eyes and without her hair in her face, Callidora almost looked as pretty as the ladies in _Witch Style_. A silver bracelet set with minute diamonds had been conditionally given to Callidora by Aunt Cissy to wear, and Dippy presented Callidora with a pair of silvery-white shoes which she slipped on with much trepidation.

Dippy briskly sprayed her with perfume from a bottle shaped like a rose. It was all rather bewildering: it all seemed far too much for breakfast with Aunt Cissy. Callidora felt very confused when Dippy finally released her to walk the solitary way through the western gallery and down the grand staircase. Sleepy portraits of long-dead ancestors greeted hushed good mornings that she replied in kind until, halfway toward an unused dining room and an empty study, Callidora realised the entire house was eerily silent.

Ever since June, when Uncle Lucius had apparated from his seat in the middle of supper with a look of sheer panic, Malfoy Manor had become infested with Death Eaters. Or, as Aunt Cissy would prefer Callidora call them, _welcome guests_.

Callidora loathed them in a way she couldn’t quite explain. Although they rarely stayed for more than a couple of hours at a time, they had a nasty habit of coming in late at night and shouting victorious about whatever they had done earlier in the evening. Their voices carried down the corridors, and it was impossible not to hear them. And the things they said… it made Callidora sick just thinking about it.

One ‘guest’, Macnair, had left a bloody scalp of hair on the table in the grand parlour, which Callidora had stumbled upon in the morning. It now laid buried under a rose bush in the ornamental garden, a rounded pebble as a grave marker to whoever it had been brutally separated from.

Callidora had told no-one what she had done. Uncle Lucius had never been afraid of voicing his convictions of muggles, and the last thing Callidora wanted was to tick him off. He had gotten rather mad when Callidora had told him she didn’t like their new ‘guests’ and had replied that she had no business being in that area of the house when there were guests in the parlours. She didn’t want getting seen, did she? (She most certainly did not, least of all by _them_ ).

Uncle Lucius had left after supper time yesterday, when Aunt Cissy had invited Callidora and Draco for tea, and returned late at night with his esteemed colleagues. Crabbe and Goyle were among them, whose familiar voices Callidora had once been comfortable listening to in the Galleries, had now turned sour and distasteful. She had grown used to hearing them in the mornings, breakfasting in the dining room with Uncle Lucius, before leaving mid-morning to go back to their own homes and families.

But, this morning, Callidora heard nothing aside from snoring portraits and her own soft sound of her feet against the carpet. It made the hair on Callidora’s neck prickle.

The Blue Room was a tearoom off the library with polished oak floors and marble statues that would move when enchanted. It was the most delicate of the drawing rooms in Malfoy Manor, with neoclassical wall panelling and opalescent chandeliers which could be charmed to house faeries for special occasions. Aunt Cissy often held tea parties for the _Betterment of British Witches_ association in there, with lots of little chairs and tables piled high with cakes and sandwiches to raise money for causes Callidora didn’t quite understand. It was not like it mattered, really, considering she was not allowed to attend any of them.  

This morning however, there was only one table, set out for breakfast and occupied only by one. Pale-haired and beautiful, Aunt Cissy sat delicately sipping from a teacup, waving one finger every so often to turn a page of a _Daily Prophet,_ hovering quaintly above her empty plate. She tried to not let it niggle her that her edition was a lot fatter than the ones delivered to her own table in the mornings.

“Good morning, Callidora,” Aunt Cissy greeted coolly when Callidora sat down.

“Good morning, Aunt Cissy,” Callidora answered brightly, and watched her napkin unfold itself from its intricate arrangement to float down onto her lap. Breakfast served itself, though it was light in Aunt Cissy’s usual fair: fruit and tea, with small slices of toasted French bread to dip in fresh double cream and runny honey.

They ate in silence for a few moments. Callidora didn’t mind; she enjoyed taking her time and listening to the pleasant whoosh of the fountain outside the window. Aunt Cissy drank her tea, not paying Callidora any mind, until she put her cup into its sauce with a delicate clink.

“From now on, Draco is not to enter or go anywhere near your rooms,” she said suddenly, tapping her nails against the porcelain. “It’s neither proper nor appropriate until the wedding.”

 _Wedding_ . Callidora’s stomach did a funny turn. For an uncomfortable moment, she was confused as to why it wasn’t proper for Draco to be in her room and then blanched. As if Draco would… as if he would ever see _her_ and… it was not very dignified to finish that train of thought. She quickly tipped her spoonful of melon balls back into her bowl and put her spoon down, no longer feeling peckish.

Aunt Cissy did not look very hunger, either. Although her face was neutral and cool, Callidora saw resolution in her eyes. If Callidora had ever doubted her Aunt’s opinion on Draco’s potential brides, she certainly did not now. Callidora was in no way, shape, or form Aunt Cissy’s first choice for her son. But why Callidora had been chosen was unfathomable to her if she were so unfavourable: surely there were other more appropriate debutantes?

“Your Uncle Lucius and I have decided it would be most… auspicious for the wedding to be held shortly,” Aunt Cissy continued, “the twenty-fifth of the eighth month of the ninety-fifth year would be most prosperous; fives are favoured,” she gave a bitter sniff before finishing, “Draco’s fifteenth birthday was the fifth, so it holds reason.” Her voice caught on the last word, twisting around her lips like a bad taste.

The… the twenty-fifth? Callidora quickly counted in her head, her heart. That would only make it thirteen days away! Weddings in magazines always seemed to take forever to plan; Lucilla and Archibald’s wedding on _the Enchantress of Elm Street_ took three months to air on the wireless! How could a wedding occur in such short a time?

Aunt Cissy certainly didn’t seem as flustered about it as Callidora felt, and continued to speak as if nothing at all was the matter. “Naturally the announcement is to be made by owl first, and then by newspaper once all has been received,” she said, and licked her lower lip delicately before continuing. “I have... decided that you will be presented as miss Callidora Artemisia Black.”

Callidora had never been blessed with a last name before. Black was Aunt Cissy and her mother’s house, before they had married – though Callidora had not been born from a marriage, but something else entirely. Rodolphus, her mother’s husband, was not her father. It was… well, it was _disgraceful_ , which was why Aunt Cissy and Uncle Lucius said she was to stay within Malfoy Manor, lest her shame be aired for all to see. Aunt Cissy had said once, after too many glasses of wine, that Callidora’s only saving grace was her blood, but her bastardy made it reprehensible.  

 _Toujours Pur_. Aunt Cissy made sure Callidora was well-educated in blood purity, making her go over the Sacred Twenty-Eight genealogy enough times she knew all the pureblood families by rote: the Malfoys (of course), the Lestranges, the Carrows, the Selwyns… she knew all their marriages, all their children, and all their deaths. She scarcely needed to read it anymore to remember any of it.

 _My marriage is going to be there_ , Callidora realised with a jolt, stuck between horror and an undercurrent of pride, _mine and_ Draco’s. A marriage would not make her any less of what she was, but maybe it would make her less horrid to the rest of the world. A woman’s bastardy was lost with a husband… wasn’t it? Maybe bastards weren’t normally given husbands -- and Callidora wasn’t stupid enough to believe that it was _she_ the one profiting from it. No. Not at all.  

“Do you like the dress?” Aunt Cissy asked, looking at her over the rim of her teacup. Her nails were painted a very vicious red. Callidora had a funny feeling her aunt wasn’t letting her think about anything very much.

“Oh, yes, it’s the loveliest thing, Aunt Cissy,” Callidora said and smiled wobbly. Draco said she looked like a grindylow when she smiled because her mouth was so large. So large, in fact, that it was difficult to keep a smile for too long once her cheeks began to ache.

Aunt Cissy took another sip of her tea through pursed lips and then placed it delicately back on its saucer. “Good,” she said simply, “You will be wearing it out today.”

Wearing it… _out_? Out where? In the garden? Surely it would get dirty in the garden.

“I beg your pardon, Aunt Cissy?”

“Well, we can’t just _announce_ you in the papers, Callidora,” Aunt Cissy explained snidely. “Lucius will be going to the Ministry today for some business — you will be going along with him.”

Inside her chest, Callidora’s heart stopped beating.

When she was littler, she had dreamed of going outside to the all the places Draco told her about. Callidora wanted to go to Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour and Eeylops Owl Emporium and to see all the racing brooms she couldn’t fly and all the wonderful magazines she would love to read inside the bookshop. She wanted to go to a dress shop and have pretty robes made especially for her, not the owl order dresses that came thin and shoddily sewn. She had daydreamed for hours about being Lucille Loddle in _the Enchantress of Elm Street_ wireless play and having tea at the Sorceress's Cup  & Saucer, dressed in fine silk and kidskin gloves.

And now… and now...

“Lucius has the Anchor, of course,” Aunt Cissy’s voice sliced through the shock as if it were only butter. “You’ll have three yards before the entrapment charm will pull you back, so don’t get clever, Callidora.”

“No, Aunt Cissy.”  

Aunt Cissy looked at her coolly, her eyes piercing into Callidora’s own. What did Aunt Cissy think Callidora would do outside the Manor, runaway? Join a travelling circus and juggle kneazles? It almost made her want to laugh in her aunt’s face, but she knew better, of course. Getting clever, that’s what her aunt always called it when Callidora misbehaved, tried to pry outside her place to where she didn’t belong. Of course, she had dreamed and dreamed of climbing the kitchen wall and running off into the forest, or maybe asking one of the muggles with their metal horses to take her somewhere…

But, truthfully, Callidora didn’t have the kind of courage nor any sort of ability to slip beneath her aunt and uncle’s thumbs in such a manner. The entrapment charm tethered her to the grounds, kept her here more surely than any lock or chain every could, and the times she had tried to leave, her chest had grown heavier and heavier with each step further away, until eventually she collapsed on the ground, trapped under a tremendous weight, ‘til her rightfully furious aunt and uncle came to fetch her.

Entrapment charms were… difficult to break or suppress. And though Aunt Cissy and Uncle Lucius removed pages of her newspaper and monitored what the correspondence school books contained, they couldn’t stop Callidora from visiting the library. It was a vast room, overlooking the rolling drive, with large sash windows and glorious tapestries, filled with bookshelf after bookshelf of spell books and tomes of magical history, great classics and tragedies of wizarding literature, ancient scrolls and beautiful charm indexes with illustrations which moved and danced each time you traced a finger down the page. Nothing was a secret there.

It was old magic. Very old, by the looks of things, as it had taken Callidora many a dusty trip up and down the shelves and through the catalogues before she found a book which prayed tell of it. An entrapment charm was strong, ensuring either wizard or beast remained where they baid by way of their enchanter, until such a time that the enchanter died or the enchanted managed to get far enough away that the charm broke. Stronger charms could be contained within an anchor to keep the enchanted person under its thrall without the enchanter being near. It made a horrible sort of sense that Callidora was tethered to an Anchor; she couldn’t even leave when her aunt and uncle holidayed on the continent during the school term.

Of course, that mean somehow surviving the enchantment’s swift retribution. As far as Callidora could tell, it meant either apparition or floo, neither of which she had access too. Because, although every other member of the household were allowed to carry their wands with them wherever they so pleased, Callidora’s own was kept under lock and key inside her uncle’s study. She was allowed it only when doing schooling, but never outside her aunt’s watchful eye lest she get clever. And Callidora could be very, very clever. It was only a matter of hiding it.

Callidora took a slow drink from her tea. Aunt Cissy waved away her newspaper and fussed with her napkin. Any other day, Callidora would have liked a morning like this with Aunt Cissy, maybe they would have withdrawn to play cards afterwards until luncheon, take tea together in the drawing room whilst Aunt Cissy sat at her writing desk, writing thank you notes and letters to lots of people she hated. They would go through her lessons, and her manners and the sacred twenty-eight, and then she would be dismissed for the day. With an aching sort of hunger, Callidora missed what was already.

The Aunt Cissy who listened to her play the harpsichord was not the Aunt Cissy who sat across from her.  _ Will she ever be like that again?  _ Callidora thought miserably,  _ she hates me. _

She wasn’t quite sure if her aunt had ever thought any differently.

It seemed an age until the quiet was disturbed, and uncle Lucius walked into the blue room, dressed in a pair of elegant charcoal robes, his cane elegantly clicking against the wooden floor. 

“My darling Narcissa,” he greeted warmly, swooping toward his wife, his robes catching the air of his momentum and fluttering about him finely. He kissed her cheek but did not draw a chair. “I’m afraid we must leave shortly, I just got a rather interesting owl. You know how the Minister can be, of course,” he laughed smugly. “Has it been settled?” 

Neither seemed to care whether or not they were looking at her. Aunt Cissy looked down, uncle Lucius’ fine blonde hair mingling with her own over her shoulder, and then turned to look at Callidora across the table. She had never looked at Callidora like that before. Her gaze was both cold and warm all at once, shining wetly in the morning light, and suddenly, she stood and glided toward the grand fireplace, reaching for something atop the mantle. 

She lingered for a moment, holding whatever it was in in front of her where Callidora could not see, and then held her arm out behind her. “Take it,” she said in a funny sort of voice. She still didn’t turn around. “ _ Take it _ , Lucius. You do it.” 

Whatever was the matter? Callidora’s belly anxiously shrivelled up, and she stood awkwardly from the table, letting her napkin fall to the floor. She wished that they would look at her. Regret and fear curled their nasty little fingers around her ribs. Why had this happened? Why couldn’t she just run upstairs and take off the dress? Take out all the lovely hairpins and wash away the rosy perfume and never, ever speak of what was happening ever again? She no longer wanted to go outside. She no longer wanted any of this, any engagement, any marriage with Draco, if only so long as her uncle and aunt would just look at her again without any sort of… any sort of… resentful finality. 

It was as if it were the only thing she could see in Uncle Lucius’s eyes when he took the mysterious object from his wife, tapping it idly with his fingers. It gave a dry hollow sort of sound, and he turning to Callidora and smiling at her with the emptiness of glass. “I guess this is it,” he said, with neither coldness or warmth. “Come here, Callidora. I do hope you’re not wearing gloves, dear.” 

His hands were long and cold when he took hers. He lifted her hand, so much smaller than his own, to his lips, and in that moment Callidora could not remember any time her uncle had ever held any part of her in kindness. With great reverence, he brought her hand down to his waist, and with a sly thumb, opened the clamshell box. 

Inside sat a familiar ring. Pinnacles of sunlight glittered off the faceted face of a midnight sapphire, embraced by a ring of dazzling diamonds, a golden band glistening brightly beneath it like a ribbon. It lay like a medallion on an emerald cushion, so delicate and extravagant at once that it made Callidora feel ill. Only the night before it had been embracing Aunt Cissy’s finger so lovingly.

“Every Malfoy bride has worn this ring,” Uncle Lucius said. His voice was soft now, almost kind. He plucked out the ring with a gentle reverence. “My mother wore it, and her mother-in-law before her, and my dearest Narcissa --” who let out a watery soaked laugh at the sound of her name -- “and now, it is yours.”

Callidora felt sick, sick, sick all over; like she was both hot and cold at once, like she could throw herself out the window and run and run until the entrapment fell on her like a tombstone. She was not a girl a Malfoy should marry.  Even raised within the walls of their ancestral home, both smothered and nurtured by it, both Uncle Lucius and Aunt Cissy knew it did not make Callidora any more worthy of marrying their son. No rare gifts of a kiss, nor any fine dress, could make her anything more than a terrible choice in their eyes.  
  
She could only hoped, somewhere deep within her, that Draco would not come to think the same for a very, very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to reiterate that Callidora is by nature an unreliable narrator :) 
> 
> I do have 10 chapters roughed out, but as I'm posting this when I have a 1,600 word essay due on Friday... ah-hah, it might take a wee bit for an update. Also, the original outline of this chapter was going to push near 10K words and I thought that giant wall of text would make people's brains fry, so I split the content into two chapters, yikes. I also had to re-edit it quickly because the ending got cut off, thanks Ao3, you're a true pal.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "His hand moved away from her ear, leaving their touch a warm, confusing phantom on her skin. Her uncle had never once touched her so — and then, as Callidora felt both stranded yet tethered to where she stood, wrapped on his arm, she realised no-one had ever touched her as he had just done. Not even Draco. Not even Aunt Cissy when she was little."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack for this chapter is "The Ministry of Magic" by Nicholas Hooper because I love Arthur Weasley and it's not ironic at all  
> Here's my own  soundtrack for this fic and I'm always adding to it

❝ _I hunger to touch something, other than cloth or wood. I hunger to commit the act of touch_. ❞  
— Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale 

 

The ring sat heavy on her finger.

Callidora couldn’t help staring at it. Dippy dressed Callidora in a grey cloak and a matching pointed hat, and then carefully removed the ring to put on a pair of soft, white gloves. It felt even heavier when Dippy put it back on her gloved finger. Against the white kidskin, the ring twinkled in the sunlight streaming through the mullion windows.

It felt as if it were made of lead instead of gold. How something so refined and beautiful could feel so… so…

“Callidora,” Uncle Lucius interrupted waspishly. He stood by the open front doors, the long gravel drive outside, stretching off into the distance and rarely used save for Aunt Cissy’s garden parties and elderly Malfoy relatives too frail for floo travel. Relatives Callidora had never been permitted to meet. She spied on them, of course, even though they stayed in the beautiful eastern rooms which overlooked rolling pastures; not the filthy Savernake forest full of walking muggles, but that was rather beside the point. Uncle Lucius looked very much like his Great Uncle Gervasius, his long, pointed nose overshadowed by an elegantly drawn brow. “We must have a little chat before we leave,” he told her.

A ‘chat’? Callidora couldn’t say that she and Uncle Lucius had ever had a chat before. Now she thought about it, Callidora could scarcely say they had spent much time within one another’s company without her aunt or cousin being present. It made her rather nervous. Callidora did not know her Uncle well. As the _paterfamilias_ of the Malfoy family and a respected wizard of Magical Britain, Uncle Lucius was often out of the Manor, conducting business at the Ministry or doing things for the many organisations he was involved in — all advisory positions of course, for no pureblood wizard needed _employment._ All this Callidora knew made him an upstanding gentlewizard _._ The papers certainly seemed to say so — as did Draco, with a smugness Callidora envied.

Uncle Lucius was straight-backed, his sharp face genteel. As a dragon might, Uncle Lucius remained collected within the safety his wealth provided. He wore his handsome black cloak, its fur-lined lapels held closed by the tongues of two coiled silver serpents, and when he offered his arm, the cloth was stiff and fine. Taking it brought Callidora close to his side and a lovely undercurrent of his warm cologne enveloped her in his embrace. Together, they faced the long drive, and in the distance, summer sun glinted off the gilded gate.

“You are _not_ to let go of my arm unless I let you, is that understood?” Uncle Lucius instructed firmly. His voice vibrated through his chest and into her own; his breath ghosted through her hair. She nodded nervously. “You will _not_ talk to strangers, and certainly _not_ without being spoken to; you’re a debutante and I expect you to act as such,” he continued. “We’re to see the Minister; you will address him as Minister even if he tells you to call him Cornelius. He’s a notorious flirt and _you_ ,” — he brushed a stray strand of Callidora’s hair behind her ear, his fingertips resting against the shell — “are a beautiful _betrothed_ young witch.”

His hand moved away from her ear, leaving their touch a warm, confusing phantom on her skin. Her uncle had never once touched her so — and then, as Callidora felt both stranded yet tethered to where she stood, wrapped on his arm, she realised no-one had ever touched her as he had just done. Not even Draco. Not even Aunt Cissy when she was little.

“Yes, Uncle,” Callidora answered, voice barely a whisper. “I understand.”

A moment passed where Uncle Lucius looked down his long nose at her with heavy, expecting eyes. Callidora wanted to shrink away from the responsibility of what he was asking. She tightened her grip on his arm. However, this seemed to appease her Uncle, because he gave a close-lipped smile and then squared his shoulders, looking away from her to the grand drive outside the open door.

“Good,” Uncle Lucius said simply. A huff of relieved air flew from his nose. “Hold on tightly: ‘tis best we side-Apparate: the Floos this time of morning are _appalling_.”

And then, he pulled her with a strong stride over the marble threshold, but before any dry summery warmth could touch her face, Callidora was swallowed alive.

Something horrible and black and tight engulfed her, empty and tight like a serpent’s throat might be — which was strange, as she could feel uncle Lucius’s arm still around hers — only whatever it was made everything — her eyes, her lungs, her mouth, her very _face_ — burn and burn and burn, because she couldn’t _breathe_ or _see_ or _hear_ anything at all except for a terrifying rush of air in her ears, making the drums pop — only then, just as quickly as it had happened, it was, and she gasped desperately for air.  

The world reached out to greet her.

Uncle Lucius’s arm was firm and strong, holding Callidora from the ground. Her heart shuddered and skipped, thrummed hard enough within her chest to drive all her new air out. The world was very blue. Her eyes took time to stop swimming in tears for all that was in front of her shone a lustrous dark sapphire. A cacophony of echoing noise filled her ears.

And what a sight!

Witches and wizards, hundreds of them, rushed and heaved through a tiled archway in front of her, wearing so many colours they hummed a colourful sea. Yelling, talking, laughing, coughing, hard heels clicking riotously against the hard floor, terrifyingly loud but _exciting_ at the same time. Callidora could scarcely believe so many people could be in one place! She could smell a manner of things, her uncle’s cologne most of all, but a tang of floo powder clung to the air, and a sort of used-upness Callidora had only ever smelled in the cellar filled her nose.  

There was just so much… so _much_. She froze like a caught rabbit in a vegetable patch, about to swotted by a broom.

She wanted to go home. Wanted it so much she felt sick with it.

Uncle Lucius pulled his wand from his cane, the end a silver serpent’s head, and waved it smoothly. Her uncle’s magic had always been refined — Callidora had never seen it clumsy or explosive, like Draco’s could be — and it was a homely distraction. The dainty fabric of her dress fluttered and tiny flecks of dirt vanished. Uncle Lucius did not appear to have a speck of anything anywhere on him. Her belly ached.  Callidora didn’t have a wand to tidy herself. How could her Uncle remain so cool, like the gleam of a quiet pond, with all that noise, all those people?

It was not terribly surprising Uncle Lucius misunderstood her staring. He often did during sparse dinners and Bridge games, they interacted so little. When Callidora was littlest, Uncle Lucius conjured bubbles and toys or Dippy to distract her, when all she hungered was words. Had Callidora even seen him so closely before? She doubted it.

“Apparition does take some getting used to,” Uncle Lucius said in a way that was perhaps meant to be soothing, but was only dismissive. He did not look at her as he said it, and Callidora flushed. It was easy for Callidora to get embarrassed: her face flushing until she felt every strand of hair on her head prickle with her shame. Aunt Cissy said it was scarcely becoming in a witch her age. _Not becoming of a fiancée for Draco_ , a snippy voice in her mind replied. She rubbed at her face with her soft glove like she could wipe it away.

Uncle Lucius thumbed one silver serpent’s head on his cloak, one of its jewelled emerald eyes blinked. Uncle Lucius frowned. “Come now, we mustn’t be late,” he said shortly, tightened her arm in his own, and made from the alcove like a basilisk, stepping so smoothly his boots scarcely made noise. Callidora tottered after him, her palms terribly sweaty in her gloves.

What would they think of her, those witches and wizards in front of them? Would they think Callidora ugly? Would they think her silly and stupid? She clung desperately to her Uncle’s arm. There was a small queue of wizards in dowdy brown and maroon suits in front of a glass-fronted counter, which Callidora recognised as an inspector’s office. It was exactly like the one from an _Auror Aloysius_ novel, _Charmless Nights with A Banshee’s Bite_. Auror Aloysius wasn’t waiting there, though, wearing a dashing set of Niffler furs and a skullcap decorated with hippogriff feathers. Callidora would have lied if she said she wasn’t only the slightest bit disappointed, even if Auror Aloysius Cecil Aelianus was only a made-up wizard from a book.

“Floo papers, please,” a haggard looking wizard said behind the box, holding an ink stamp bigger than a paperweight. He wasn’t wearing anything except a wrinkled grey Ministry uniform with no hippogriff feathers in sight. “Only Ministry employees are issued for the use of Apparition points O section twelve to T section thirty-six. You will be escorted to the Misdirected Post and Mild Misdemeanours Office if you _do not_ have your papers.”

They didn’t have to queue for any papers to be stamped. Uncle Lucius took Callidora toward a set of grey-robed wizards in front of a vaulted archway, blocked off by a levitating velvet rope. There was not a single witch or wizard in a queue ahead of them, and the guardian wizards waiting looked drowsy and bored.

“Governor Malfoy,” One of them said genially, scratching at his big belly. He had a tremendous brown beard braided all the way to the floor, with fern and daffodil cuttings poking out amongst stray whiskers. It was _very_ Avant Garde, Callidora thought, but shooed into her Uncle’s arm when he turned his eyes on her. “’Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello, who’s this then?”

“I can’t see how that is _any_ of your concern, Pickeridge,” Uncle Lucius’s said coolly. It was very different to the wizard in the box being given people’s names. Callidora’s was likely one not knowing, then. She was grateful for it.  “Let us through, would you, I have a meeting with the Minister.”

Pickeridge smartened up, and the levitating rope lifted out of the way for them to pass.

It became impossibly louder past the rope. Callidora thought it nothing but a hallway to something more, until she realised that they were several feet above the air, above a monstrous hall seething with impossibly _more_ people. Past the view of the balcony was a golden fountain, one Callidora had seen many a time in the _Daily Prophet_ but never thought she would get to see in person _._

_The Fountain of Magical Brethren_ stood like a glimmering beacon in the light of the Atrium, illuminated by dozens of floating candles in crystal bubbles. The rushing of its fountain was familiar, a rush that could be heard over the throng of hundreds of Ministry workers chatting below. It was so _lovely_. She could see the gleaming centaur, the witch and the wizard arm in arm, and several proud golden goblins amongst the merry streams of water.

But Callidora didn’t dare stop to stare; she knew better than to stall her Uncle. Or, well, the Minister himself, she supposed.  

It felt awfully special to be in such a high walk above all those below. The walk wound its way along the length of the Atrium, and she stole glances over its rails as Uncle Lucius walked her. It looked so busy, everybody fighting for space, that Callidora would have gotten trampled in very little time. A large banner hung in the centre of the Atrium where it divided off to places Callidora didn’t know, the Minister of Magic’s sanguine profile looking out at them all. It was strange. The tampered _Prophet_ s Callidora received never said anything about the Minister being unwell. Or a ghost. It was rather the business Ministers for Magic were pre-deceased.

“Uncle Lucius?” Callidora asked quietly. She couldn’t help herself; she hoped it would be allowed to talk as the walk was empty aside from them. She had to know the answer, or she would find herself very sad.

“Yes?”

“Is the Minister unwell?”

Uncle Lucius stopped, and turned just so they were facing. Callidora had never seen such a look on his face before. “No. Why do you ask that?”

Callidora thought the answer obvious. She pointed at the Minister’s overlarge likeness. “Well, paintings and tapestries, aren’t they made of dead people?”

Uncle Lucius looked confounded. “No,” he answered slowly, after a moment. “No, they are not.” He blinked several times and his expression slipped away.  “Callidora, do _not_ ask the Minister _any_ questions.”

And then Uncle Lucius made down the walk again, and Callidora’s arm felt as though it was going to fall off. His cane tocked against the wooden floor with much fervour, and then they came upon a set of further gilded doors. They were purple, and inscribed with golden phoenixes in flight, wondrously bright and shimmering with enchanted enamel. Aunt Cissy had a jewellery box just like it in her dressing room. Uncle Lucius used the end of his cane to hit a purple button next to the doors on the wall, and it dinged open. _An elevator!_ Callidora’s mind squealed happily, _a real life not-made-up elevator!_

If Callidora hadn’t been so fond of picture books when she was little, she would have recoiled. A goblin, dressed in a fine purple waistcoat with a golden pocket watch as fat as an apple, was sitting inside upon a velvet stool, managing a complex collection of differently shaped levers. He looked at them with passivity.

“Rasgnurt,” Uncle Lucius greeted. He did not take them into the elevator.

The goblin gave a slim, toothy smile. Its black eyes glittered in the light of a fairy-bubble. “Governor Lucius,” it said back. He? Callidora had never seen a lady goblin before, not even in a picture book, so she supposed it was a he. “If you’re here for Cornelius, he got off on Level Ten not ten minutes ago.”  


This time, Uncle Lucius took them into the elevator. The cacophony of noise from the Atrium ebbed away once they were inside. It didn’t shake beneath Callidora’s slippers like she thought it would. Were elevators just boxes on ropes? Surely, they could plummet to their death and she would never have to face Aunt Cissy again.

Callidora quickly found an altogether worse fate in the elevator than the Atrium full of wizards. The _goblin_. She had never seen a real goblin before and she certainly didn’t know how to talk to one. It was rude to stare, so Callidora found herself staring determinedly at the closing doors instead, as they had little disposition to getting offended by rudeness.

“Already?” Uncle Lucius asked. “My, _my_.” He sounded darkly amused; the sort of tone Callidora had grown used to hearing in the dark of night. She shivered.

Rasgnurt pulled a long lever which made a cranking noise. Elevators were both exciting and terrifying at once. The lift’s descent was marked by a soft melodious tune, like that of a music box, filling the small enclosed space. A set of buttons lit up on mantle by the door: Level Eight. Level Nine. Plush velvet seats were on either side of the elevator, different to the golden stool Rasgnurt perched on, his pointy booted feet dangling above the floor. The excitement of it all made them look very enticing, but Uncle Lucius stood as sure as a tree. She leant into him a little bit, just for a bit of rest. _No gentlewizard would deign to recline in public_ , she could hear him lecture, _certainly not one of appropriate stature_.

She was a touch resentful the seats had to look so soft.

Level Ten. The elevator opened onto a dark hall, this time tiled in black and lined on either side by dark doors with golden handles. Witches and wizards in black and plum robes were gathered near the end of it, talking amongst themselves very gravely, and Callidora slid just a little further behind her uncle’s arm. Amongst enchanted floating candles flew many pink paper aeroplanes, some floating down to be plucked by a respective wizard or others being enchanted to fly off down another mysterious hall. They looked very important.

Uncle Lucius did not seem the least bit intimidated. Just as he had stridden toward Pickeridge’s roped off walkway, Uncle Lucius strode towards the gathering, pulling Callidora behind him. He walked like a water snake, silky and smooth, whereas Callidora toddled gracelessly in her slippers to keep up. Her uncle’s legs were so much longer than hers.  

_Oh no_ , Callidora thought as they drew close, _Oh no_. She didn’t want them to see her and the feeling crept into her belly to make a nest. They were all old and very serious. They would surely think her stupid or _worse_. It made her think of the episode of _Enchantress of Elm Street_ where Fabian Featherweight got his mouth cursed shut by the Enchantress for sleeping with her Centaur gardener. She imagined her lips were cursed together and tried to hid even more behind Uncle Lucius. If she made no noise and made herself very small, maybe they would not notice her.

When they were close enough for many perfumes to reach Callidora’s nose, a small bundle of witches and wizards in plum robes stepped aside. It seemed a familiar and practiced movement to them. A wizard whom Callidora very much recognised from the newspaper, no matter how many pages were censored from her, stepped forward from amongst the split witches and wizards to greet her Uncle.

The Minister was shorter than Callidora expected.

He was genial, with oiled grey hair combed back from his wrinkled yet simple face, and he smiled a perfectly white set of teeth when Lucius drew close. His robes were black and formal, with a large silver ‘W’ pinned to his left breast. He looked hale without look of a wizard likely to drop stone dead, no matter how many flying banners. Callidora was relieved. Uncle Lucius let Callidora go so they could shake their wand hands.

“Minister.”

“Governor Lucius,” Cornelius Fudge replied, and though he smiled, his tone was serious. “ _So_ glad you could make it with the rearrangement” — his eyes flickered to where Callidora had unsuccessful bid to hide — “Oh, and who is this? Come now Lucius, don’t hide the poor girl.”

Callidora swallowed, and she looked at Uncle Lucius for a moment before looking at the Minister again. He smiled in a way that made Callidora squirm, and held his arm out for Callidora to step forward. She felt very poor indeed. _Curtsey_ , a panicked voice in her head whispered, different from the nasty one, _Dora!_ It scolded when she hesitated.

The Minister’s hand was very soft, and held hers delicately whilst she gave the traditional witches’ courtesy Aunt Cissy had taught her a long time ago. A witches’ bow was different to a wizard’s, more contained, three fingers held over the heart and a low courtesy, left food tucked behind the right, to where a witch’s head would be level with their greeter’s own heart. She practiced in the mirrored hall with a greeting statue of Abascantus Malfoy, the hard marble growing warm beneath her hand. She preferred having her hand held by a cold statue than the mushiness of the Minister’s.

Uncle Lucius took Callidora back on his arm when Cornelius Fudge let her go. She couldn’t help staring at the tiles next to the Minister’s head. _The Minister for Magic_. She felt like her insides where shaking with nerves, like an ashwinder ready to burst. Her neck prickled with the eyes of those serious old wizards pretending not to hear, coughing and talking like she and her Uncle Lucius were fruit in a barren crop.

“Cornelius, may I introduce miss Callidora Black,” Lucius said silkily and the nervousness froze within her. Uncle Lucius almost sounded… proud. Proud of her? Or… proud of himself, a pureblood wizard? Proud of his family? He took Callidora’s left hand in his own, and gently wrapped his fingers under her own. _Proud of himself_ , the snide voice supplied.

The ring’s sapphires and diamonds glimmered when presented to the low light of charmed golden bubbles floating above them all in the vaulted corridor. Whispers, soft and hissed, filled the air like a swarm of bees. Where they talking of her?

_Don’t be stupid_.

Tongues only wagged when there where ears to hear them. Uncle Lucius had poured syrup for a perpetually hungry hive.

Cornelius’s held expression melted away and Callidora realised, dumbly, his pleasantness had been a mask. His eyes seemed to sparkle, and his cheeks looked very fat when he smiled. “Oh my, oh my!” He congratulated and brought his hands together in front of him. He looked over Callidora’s head to talk to Uncle Lucius. “Your son, I presume? Rather young, isn’t he?”

“Of course,” Uncle Lucius drawled and waved a dismissive hand. “ _Pura Nuptias_. My wife and I thought it time, especially under the current… _circumstances_ , you understand. I fear _true_ magical traditions are dying out — which you know Cornelius, I just _cannot_ abide by — surely, you’ve _heard_ what that Burbage woman is teaching at Hogwarts, haven’t you? It’s _preposterous_.”

The Minister nodded sagely. “Certainly, Lucius, you can never be too cautious; children are _so_ impressionable, you know.” He shook his head in commiseration, gave a great sniff, and then turned to Callidora to say, “I must say, it is _wondrous_ to be seeing traditions coming back, wouldn’t you say, miss Black?”

“O-oh yes, Minister,” Callidora said, and was only a little amazed she hadn’t frozen stiff as a board. “I’m very proud to be a witch,” she finished diplomatically. Uncle Lucius gave a close-lipped smile out of the corner of Callidora’s eye. Was a witch without a wand still a witch? Callidora didn’t know.

“Cornelius, please,” He said and Callidora gave a wobbly smile. She would not call him Cornelius, even if Uncle Lucius had told her not too. “A summer wedding then? August brides are _most_ agreeable.”  

“Yes, the twenty-fifth,” Callidora said, and then tried to hide her wince. Was she supposed to say the date that Aunt Cissy had decided? _Oh no_.

It didn’t seem to have upset Uncle Lucius. who nodded at her when she looked at him too long. A bubble of stress popped within her belly.

“Shall I be expecting an owl?” Minister Fudge smiled far friendlier than any grown-up had ever smiled at her. Callidora was very aware she was within a group of grown-ups, all whom were talking amongst themselves… Callidora had the oddest feeling their ears were not yet satisfied.

“Oh yes, you would be our most honoured guest,” Callidora answered much too quickly. “There’s going to be cake.”

And both Uncle Lucius and the Minister laughed.

This was not like a novel at all. Or a radio play. Or a featurette in _Little Witch_. Callidora felt so out of depth she was going to drown. She wished, miserably, there more friends than Malfoy portraits to talk with in the Manor. Finding things to say was _hard_ , especially to someone as smart and important as the Minister. And Callidora very much doubted Cornelius Fudge himself was an avid listener of the _Enchantress_ , or a reader of _Auror Aloysius_ serials or _The Tall Tales of Tessa the Tiny Troll_.

“How delightful. I am very much looking forward to it then,” the Minister said charitably. His tone made Callidora feel very stupid. She found herself giving the Minister a wobbly grindylow smile and nodding, only so that she could hide her face and not return his gaze. _Very stupid and very rude_ , her snide little voice said. Callidora couldn’t help but agree.

Above them, a chime sounded and echoed down the tiled hall; a set of black double-doors opened near them. A glistening golden ‘10’ shone above the threshold. Where was she? The witches and wizards near them carried a heavy air, and Callidora looked at their grim, tight-lipped faces. Their voices were too low to hear; their trepidation thick enough to touch. Uncle Lucius and the Minister remained proud as hippogriffs as the wizards and witches brushed their robes and left through the open doors. The hall grew quieter and quieter.

One witch split from the group to place a thick, stubby hand on the Minister’s arm. She was very short, shorter than Callidora, and very wide, with powdered cheeks and big, watery eyes. Her dull brown hair was piled on top of her head in strange, thick, symmetrical curls, held together by a dainty black bow. Amongst the biggest barrel-rolled curl was a fat, golden cat’s head pin, encrusted with many shining pink jewels. Its eyes were beady green and even had a ruby red tongue.

It was singularly the most disgusting hairpin Callidora had ever seen.

“Oh, good luck Cornelius,” the woman said in a high and very oily voice, and Callidora flinched when she gave an odd girlish laugh. Only one laugh, a _hum!_ which echoed ten times louder than Callidora’s porcelain heels ever had. “Though you certainly don’t need it.”

If the Minister had only been charitable with Callidora, he was very, very generous to the witch. “Thank you,” he smiled, this time with bared teeth. It was not a comfortable smile, as all polite ones often were. “Why don’t you, ah, go in and get ready, Dolores.”

“Oh — oh, yes,” Dolores simpered and gave another hiccupy laugh. She did not remove her hand from the Minister’s arm. Callidora stole the chance to hide further behind her Uncle’s cloaked shoulder. She certainly did _not_ want this witch to see her. “I trust you to make the right decision, Cornelius. All Ministers must, and this matter,” — her voice took an odd tone, caught between seriousness and girlishness, like a mother scolding a baby — “is _very_ serious.”

Uncle Lucius did not appear keen on the ugly witch. And neither did the ugly witch on her Uncle. Dolores did not look once at Uncle Lucius during the entire exchange, and when Cornelius said something placating and humorous, Dolores hiccupped up again and disappeared from the now empty hall through the mysterious doors.

Uncle Lucius cleared his throat. “Now that _that_ has been dealt with,” he said snidely. “What _have_ you decided?”

“Oh, come now, Lucius,” Cornelius said and chuckled. Behind Uncle Lucius’s shoulder, Callidora grew comfortable. It was as if the horrible cat witch had cast an invisibility spell on her. “It is bad luck to decide a curse before the duel has even begun!”

Grownups were very strange, Callidora decided. She wasn’t sure what piece she was missing, but she could tell it was an important puzzle. Too important for the likes of her. She let them talk their grownup talk, idly rolling her fingers on Uncle Lucius’s arm to watch the diamonds glimmer in the ring. _Draco’s_ ring. _Her_ ring.

She wondered where Draco was right at that moment. In bed, maybe, sleeping in after the late night; playing Quidditch on the old pitch tucked behind the honeysuckle hedge; or, hogging her Wireless to catch a League match. He said hers got the best signal out of all twelve sets within the Manor, but really, Callidora just thought he liked listening to a match without his parents close by. He could take up her entire settee and throw a hand-sized Quaffle into the air just to catch it again without being scolded. It drove her mental sometimes, but it was kinder company than portraits and a nanny elf.

 

It was very easy, when one’s company was a Wireless or an aunt that could dismiss you, to get lost in the hum of conversation. Portraits loved to talk to other portraits, echoing halls of chatters and snipes and tellings off from older ancestors, so when Uncle Lucius’s and the Minister’ conversation grew to a natural end, Callidora was spooked by the Minister taking her empty hand. Portraits could not touch her.

“It was lovely to meet you, miss Black,” he said, and then brought her hand all the way up to his chest so he could kiss it.

To say the Minister’s kiss was pleasant was to say a troll wasn’t smelly, but Callidora smiled as best she could until he let her go. She quickly wrapped her freed hand around her uncle’s forearm where it anchored her other. t would be very rude to wipe the Minister’s lingering salvia off, no matter how much she wanted too.  Was this what meeting new people would entail? Grabbing and kissing? How horrid.

Uncle Lucius and the Minister bowed heads. “Well then, Lucius,” the Minister said with a strained voice, “Let us get this over with, before it becomes a real nuisance.”

And then the Minister straightened his robes, the great ‘W’ badge glinting in the bubble light, and whisked off through the open, illustrious black door.

They stood after the Minister had left for a moment.

“Well done,” Uncle Lucius said simply, almost as if he was addressing the open air.

When Callidora looked up at her Uncle, she saw that he was smiling. Not a broad smile, but a smile it was nonetheless. “Really?” she asked. She could still hear their laughter inside her head.

“Yes.” Uncle Lucius sniffed. He pulled a shiny silver pocket-watch out from his robes and made a show of flicking it open to check the time. “Now, Draco should be in the Atrium, to take you for tea.”

Uncle Lucius took her back down the quiet corridor, up through the elevator — (Rasgnurt gave her a toothy grin that made her hide again in Uncle Lucius’ sleeve) — though, this time it opened onto another floor completely.

The Atrium was less swamped with people than it had been before. Callidora’s belly must have run out of butterflies: she could not find the strength to be scared when Uncle Lucius led her straight into the crowd of witches and wizards. She was tired and the noise was beginning to hurt her head. Whenever she felt ill Dippy would put her to bed and pat her hair. She wanted that now, but Uncle Lucius looked so steely Callidora daren’t ask.

_Tea with Draco_ , the kind voice in her head said reassuringly, _wouldn’t that be nice? You like tea_.

_And you like Draco_ , the snide one supplied.

Even her _thoughts_ were rude. Callidora was sure that made her even less amiable as a bride.

Just as Uncle Lucius had promised, Draco was waiting at the foot of _the Statue of Magical Brethren_. Callidora hadn’t seen him at first because his back was turned, leaning in to consider the great basin of fountain water. Uncle Lucius’s cane was loud enough to be heard over the din of voices and Draco sinuously turned around before they got close enough to talk. If Draco had been the one to catch Callidora in such a compromising situation on the Manor grounds, he would have pushed her into the fountain. He had done it many times.

When he turned around Callidora smiled as grindylow-wobbly as she could.

The golden fountain bathed him in a soft glow, making his blonde hair silver and his eyes diamond against the indigo blue of his robes, tailored in crisp, sharp lines.  Silver chrysanthemums were embroidered on the sleeves of his robes. _We match_ , Callidora realised, her chest catching with warmth. _We match_. Draco smiled when they saw them, and Callidora hoped, selfishly, that his eyes were on her, and not so much on his father. They stepped onto the white-and-brass tiles surrounding the edge of the fountain, and Callidora could feel the soft flush of fountain-water air touch her cheeks. It was blessedly cool.

“Father, Dora,” Draco greeted brightly over the hubbub of the crowd. He was suspiciously bright: they had gone to bed when the sun had kissed the horizon. Aunt Cissy must have sent Dippy with a pot of coffee to rouse him. He hopped down from the highest step to where they waited, and clapped Uncle Lucius on his left shoulder. More than one pot, then.

“Good morning,” Uncle Lucius said. “I was half-expecting you to be late.”

Two pink splotches bloomed on Draco’s cheeks. “Well, I _wasn’t_.”

“Glad to hear it,” Uncle Lucius said, not the least snottily. “Take Callidora for some tea at _Poppy’s Pot_ , would you? I have more business to take care of.”

Callidora’s grindylow smile faded into pond slime. She thought she had done well with the Minister, and there Uncle Lucius was, handing her over like she was naught a nuisance. She had not asked a single question. Uncle Lucius drew Draco in close and swapped Callidora’s now-limp grip to Draco’s own. They shook their left hands together, and Draco shoved it into his pocket once they let go. His cheeks were still pink. Callidora supposed he was still annoyed with Uncle Lucius for telling him off.

Draco’s arm was slimmer. He wore a pleasant, milder cologne than Uncle Lucius’s, crisp and warm like a summer breeze. Carnations soaked in brandy. His grip was comfortable, and he took his hand out of his pocket to rest it atop Callidora’s.

“Be back here at eleven,” Uncle Lucius instructed. “ _Don’t_ be late.” Then strode off back toward the elevator. Another grey-robed wizard waited before the elevator’s doors, and Callidora watched as Uncle Lucius and the wizard began talking. Or arguing. They appeared the same at a distance.

“Come on,” Draco said, shaking Callidora’s arm. He needn’t have tried. He already had Callidora’s complete attention. With a grin, Draco hopped down the last step onto the wooden floor with their arms still linked together. It was very like him to not even ask. When they were littler, Draco would tug Callidora wherever he wanted to go.

Callidora didn’t mind. She jumped down to join him without a second thought.

She lost her balance when she landed, her soft leather sole slipping on the polished wood. Draco laughed and lifted his arm to steady her before she fell, as though they were dancing. “Steady on!”

“You made me!”

“I did no such thing,” Draco retorted smugly, “Those that follow are those that fall, you know.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Callidora replied and stuck her nose in the air. She could feel her face was still warm. Would she ever lose her blush after today? It felt with every turn Callidora made, she was miserably embarrassing herself. Her sick-feeling belly returned. And although Draco was taller than her, he was not big enough to hide behind. He wasn’t even wearing a proper cloak. Draco rarely ever did.

However, it wasn’t all bad. Draco did not walk as fast as Uncle Lucius, and held her much more comfortably, so her arm didn’t feel ready to drop off. Callidora… liked how Draco held her, two of his hands around her arm, her shoulder brushing below his. It was nice.

Draco took Callidora away from the Fountain and through the Atrium filled with remaining stragglers, harried-looking. One witch, with an outrageous s shock of unfashionably pink hair, seemed particularly flustered and jogged toward a cluster of grated elevators in a floral nightdress with only socks on. It was rather unfortunate when the witch bowled into a group of wizened crones exiting one of the elevators, and send several potions vials and numerous feathers to smash and ooze onto the floor. Callidora tried to catch a glimpse over Draco’s shoulder when they passed, but Draco hadn’t even noticed enough to care. They passed an empty coffee stall where the wizard clerk was idly charming sugar cubes to float in formation, some paperboys sitting on top of towers of newspapers tied with string, sharing a sandwich, and the Broom Storage Department, which was covered in various signs like ‘ _No Muggle Harm with a Disillusionment Charm!_ ’ and ‘ _Retune Your Broom with Teranius’s: Skilled Broom-Crafters for the Every-Day Wizard!_ ’. She had heard of Teranius’s on the Wireless, and it made sense the sign was covered in ugly enchanted broomsticks that whizzed about the board and smacked into the glitzy lettering.

_Poppy’s Pot_ was a teashop off from the main bustle of the Atrium, overshadowed by a monstrous statue of Merlin. Beautiful golden vines made the shopfront, curled into window frames with stained glass and an elegant. A golden plaque was set by the entrance, two closed scarlet doors, which read in equally elegant letters, ‘ _THE_ _POPPY’S POT_ — _INVITATION ONLY’_. Draco strolled up casually and tapped his wand against the door which opened to a modest reception room with red silk wallpaper and a collection of low armchairs and loveseats, clustered around marble podiums bursting with ostentatious flower arrangements. There were two doors leading off from the room, one labelled ‘ _PRIVATE DINERS’_ and ‘ _STRITCLY CONFIDENTIAL’_. Callidora wandered what the distinction was.

She would have kept investigating the CONFIDENTIAL door from a distance if her hat hadn’t simply lifted itself off her head and toward an unmanned coat check. A mysterious force tugged at the sleeves of her cloak and Callidora took her arm from Draco’s — reluctantly — so the enchantment could take her cloak, too. _Oh_ , this was exactly like the _Proud Porlock’s Pub_ in _Auror Aloysius: A Tangled Heart_! Auror Aloysius would slip into the restaurant at any moment, letting his cloak fall immediately to the enchantment without thought, and march his way through the CONFIDENTIAL door where the suspect waited, enjoying a hearty roast of boiled horklumps in flavoured brine…    

It was somewhat shattered when a witch emerged from the CONFIDENTIAL door dressed in a white apron over ruby red robes. She perked up and swished her wand and the tray of used cups and saucers disappeared. “Good morning Master Malfoy,” she said brightly and walked toward them, giving a small head bow. Callidora had never met a waitress before. The witch looked between Draco and Callidora and asked, “Your father isn’t dining today?”

“No, Ministry business with Cornelius,” Draco said smugly. Callidora swore she saw his chest puff up. Did the Minister let Draco call him Cornelius? Did Uncle Lucius, for that matter?

“Of course, Master Malfoy,” the witch said placatingly. She waved her wand, and the PRIVATE door opened. Draco walked Callidora through behind her.

Many small, white-clothed tables were gathered in groups of two and four in a grand dining room, the roof held up with golden flower arches and twirled  petals in the crown-mouldings. It was public but quaintly private, a hum of hushed conversation melting together with the soft melodies being played by a trio of beautiful witches with harps and a peacock-coloured lute tucked away in a corner. It was very beautiful. Very modern, Callidora supposed, the chairs a light oak, and there were padded booths overlooked by the stained-glass windows, taken mostly by serious Ministry workers dressed in varieties of black and navy and sage. 

It was a two-chair table the witch sat them at, the seats floating out for them to sit and napkins unfolded themselves. This, Callidora was familiar. The setting was less formal than that at Malfoy dinners, with two sets of cutleries, three glasses, and two service dishes, golden-rimmed and decorated with enchanted enamel faeries. The centrepiece was humble, tall enough to be beautiful but not so tall that Callidora could not see Draco across from her, made of golden chrysanthemums and small, white baby’s breath. Callidora knew quite a bit about flowers, any good witch should, Aunt Cissy said, and she made all the arrangements for her own rooms. Not all the tables Callidora could see had the same flower arrangements; though all carried much the same colours. It was curious but restaurants were different to Houses, Callidora supposed. Things would naturally be different.

The witch bowed after Draco and Callidora had seated and then left.

Menus were tucked into their setting bowls, shaped into folded flowers that unfurled to uncover the words within. Callidora had never ordered from a menu.

“Tea for two — _à l'anglaise_ ,” Draco said and waved away the floating flower. He did not seem the least bit flustered and he picked a bit of fluff of his shoulder and flicked it away. Its paper petals furled back inwards and disappeared without a sound. Callidora was relieved that hers vanished with it, as did the service plates, the bowls, and all the cutleries.

Tea was served in a grand golden teapot on a filigreed warmer, which popped into existence just to the side of the chrysanthemums and baby’s breath, as did a tower of small petit fours, little sandwiches, tarts, scones with cream and jam, and delicately sliced fruits. It was marvelous.

“It’s just _tea_ , Dora,” Draco said teasingly, though lowly. Somewhere in the last four years, Draco had learnt a touch of tact; he still mocked her openly at the family table, though. Rotten attic bat. “Have a tart, they’re delicious.”

Delicious was what _Poppy’s Pot_ provided. The tea was brewed to perfection, flavoursome but not over-stewed. The tart crust was crisply soft and fresh and not the least bit soggy from stewed berries. The petit fours were so beautiful Callidora scarcely wanted to disturb them, dusted with gold and sugared petals, though it was made clear Draco was happily content to do so. He polished off two within the first ten minutes of the sitting, and happily drank his way through his cup of tea just as fast.

“How do you find it?” He asked, halfway through another slice. She herself was only halfway through a fruit tart, and her tea sat cooling within its golden cup.

“Delicious,” she answered, somewhat dutifully. It seemed so obvious the answer, how greedily Draco ate — but humouring was better than silence. “Like clouds.”

Draco laughed. “I’ve _flown_ through clouds. They’re rather watery.”

“Creamy clouds.”

“Clouds evaporate as soon as you pass through them.”

Weevil. “Fine.” Callidora took a scone from one of the towers. She tore it in half with her fingers, then scooped up some cream, then some strawberry jam, and slathered it on. When she bit into the scone, a bit of cream stuck to her nose. She ate determinedly, swallowed, dabbed her mouth with a napkin and said, “ _Fruity_ , _creamy_ clouds.”

When Draco smiled, her heart, so twisted with the morning, so twisted with everything, blossomed. A weevil can wiggle through rough-sack, make a happy life within flour and oats; Draco was the same. Aunt Cissy had kept them apart, but no matter how big a Manor, two occupants will meet, regardless of walls and closed doors and garden hedges.

Grandmother Grindleswythe, a writer for _Little Witch,_ dispensed wisdom in the query page, replying to letters often, and she always said distance made young hearts grow fonder. Callidora had the youngest heart of all, and it was younger still when Draco left for Hogwarts. One weevil could spell the doom of a sack of flour, and one spark in a lantern could catch the wick, and it seemed at that moment, Callidora’s young heart had always been victim to wrigglers and match-holders. Those that came back to those that remained. Draco had wiggled in as soon as they had met, then lit a flame and made a home when he left, stoked with letters as tinder and promises as fresh coals.

Draco reached across the table, over the chrysanthemums, over the baby’s breath, and wiped the dot of cream off her nose. “I surrender,” he said, and still he smiled.

_Surrender to me_ , Callidora’s heart sang, _Surrender to my own_.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness of this chapter -- there's an explanation in my author bio. Also, you absolute traitors didn't tell me about me using two same-meaning words in the last chapter that was not elegant, though I fixed it long enough to have forgotten the precise words! Con-crit welcome. I also polished this off and am publishing it at 4 am when I have two 2K-word-each final assignments due in under seventy-two hours I've not started.
> 
> 1) all of the paintings or grand artistic gestures Callidora sees are of dead people  
> 2) Abascantus Malfoy - Abascantus was a real physician from the Second Century who invented an antidote for snake bites, I thought it completely fitting  
> 3) _Pura Nuptias_ \- literally "Pure Marriage" - my cockamamie pureblood tradition of marrying young purebloods together for the preservation of their blood purity. I have the subtly of a truck, so you could probably see through that entire conversation.  
>  4) Level Ten, Court Room Ten... I wonder whose in trouble? -wink wonk-  
> 5) dialogue is hard  
> 6) Again, you probably saw through most of things in this re: truck -- I also blend book and movie stuff together because why not  
> 7) I hate weevils
> 
> comments welcome, even if it's guff -- I don't have people IRL I can talk about my fics with ._.;;

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise if anyone finds this squicky; I don't blame you. This was originally a one-shot from 2013 that I then re-wrote and then decided to continue in 2016 -- I hope I've improved since then, ha.
> 
> Comments and kudos would be wonderful if you have the time, they're very encouraging :) and critiques are welcome!


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